Note Me, Baby
by twasadark
Summary: Sam and Dean encounter zombies, a warlock, and some mysterious, but aggravating notes. In Nebraska. Oh my. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Title: Note Me, Baby (Part 1 of 2, WIP)  
Author: XinaMarieUhl  
Category: Gen, Humor, Crack  
Rating: PG-13 (fer cussin')  
Disclaimer: Just try and get me to claim something. I dare ya.  
Summary: Zombies, notes, and a warlock. In Nebraska. Oh my.

Note: Betaed by the incomparable **dysonrules**, who also encouraged the general weirdness this story has become. Written for the first foundficspn challenge at LiveJournal. Originally, it was going to be a dark and angsty thriller. That plan didn't really work out. I'll make sure that the story is finished by NEXT Thursday. And by the way, the last part will include each of the following elements: orangutans, gibbering, and Teen Beat.

Dean found the note on a Thursday morning, tucked under the Impala's driver's side windshield wiper. He peered at the large, girlish script and read aloud: _Your car is ugly. _  
The letters had been traced over to make them bolder, more easily read. He turned the note over; the back was blank.  
"Fuck that!" Dean exclaimed in a gravelly voice. He hadn't even had his first cup of coffee and some kind of bastard was insulting his baby. He looked around the motel parking lot. A scattering of mud-splattered, driverless vehicles were the only occupants. It was almost 6:30 am, way too early for most people to be up.  
_ What kind of fucker would write something like that? _He wondered. Obviously someone with no appreciation for the finer things in life.  
The hotel door closed with a click and Sam made his way out to the Impala, his hair damp and curling around his neck from a shower. He noticed Dean's frown.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Nothing," Dean grumped, wadded up the paper and jammed it in the back pocket of his jeans.  
He slid into the Impala's smooth leather seats and turned the key, listening with pleasure to the deep powerful rumble of the engine. He sighed.  
"You know what, Sam?"  
"What?"  
"I'm a lucky man." Dean grinned and peeled out of the parking lot.

Later, after eating up 250 miles of blacktop and nearly puncturing a tire on a piece of sheet metal in his lane, Dean pulled into the Roadhouse's parking lot. Feeling suddenly mischievous, he sped up and flipped a donut, sending gravel scattering and dust pluming, before parking.  
"Damnit, Dean!" Sam groused, brushing at the front of his dweeby button-down shirt. He was holding a can of Sprite in one hand.  
"Spill a little?" Dean inquired. "That's just tragic."  
"Bite me," Sam replied.  
"You wish."  
Dean piled out of the car and stretched, popping vertebra and groaning at how good it felt to move his muscles again.  
Inside, after some small talk about Jo ("Nope, haven't seen her since Christmas," Ellen says.) and Ash ("He's at a beekeeper's convention in Wichita. No, seriously.") he and Sammy got down to business.  
"What's the news on Barnabas?" Sam asked.  
They'd been chasing around after Barnabas the Warlock (somehow, the capital 'W' made him seem like even more of a loser) for a little more than two weeks now with little to show for their efforts. Barnabas's bizarre pastime was reanimating dead barnyard animals. The animals – two cows, a sheep, and a very large, ill-smelling pig – zombied their way around the farms until they literally fell apart, since the zombie action hadn't actually stopped the process of decaying. Sometimes even then the disattached pieces would skitter around on their own, scaring little children and causing pregnant women to go into premature labor. While no one had actually been hurt yet, some honest, unimaginative farming types _were _getting pretty seriously freaked out.  
Apparently, evil was having a slow month.  
As Sam kept reminding Dean when he bitched about how this kind of work was frickin' _beneath_ them, neither rain nor sleet nor lame-ass supernatural doings keep a hunter from his work.  
So. Turns out that a friend of a friend of a friend's ex in laws noticed a slightly balding, paunchy man in a cape (for Christ's sake) hunting around for the trappings of dark magic: blood from a virgin goat, six hairs from a left-handed, hermaphroditic dwarf, and powdered chicken's beaks. The ingredients hadn't really tipped off the friend of a friend of someone else's friend. The fact that Barnabas was trying to buy them in Bumblefuck, Nebraska, at the local feed shop, did.  
"That's the intell you have for us?" Dean asked skeptically.  
Ellen, in the middle of polishing a set of shot glasses, shrugged. "What can I say, boys? It's been a slow month."  
"Yeah, we know," Sam said, glancing sidelong at his brother.  
Out in the car, Sam pulled Bumblefuck up on mapquest (_It's _Bullsfordville, _Dean, you crack smoker. Say it right, will you?)_ and got directions. Dean put the key in the ignition and, just as he was trying to decide whether to rock out to Metallica or Ozzy, he froze.  
Under the windshield wiper lay a folded white note.  
It's probably just a flyer for someone's lawn mowing service, he decided. Although when he glanced around the parking lot, he didn't see any ads on the other cars. That seemed a little odd.  
Reaching through the open window, he craned his arm around to snatch the note, and flipped it open. In large, girlish script, written in pencil, were the words:  
_That shirt makes you look fat. _  
Dean snorted, and handed the note to Sam. "This your idea of a joke, college boy?"  
Sam read the note, appearing genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? I didn't write this."  
Dean pulled the first note out of his back pocket and compared the two. "I found this on my windshield this morning, at the motel. Look, same handwriting. Same girly handwriting, even. You're just trying to throw me off track."  
Sam sighed. "Dean, I didn't write those notes."  
"Oh, come on, Sammy. You must really be jealous of my car and my wardrobe. Not that I don't have a lot to be jealous of, but really – notes on my car? That's weak, dude. Just weak."  
"Dean, I did _not_ write those notes. Think. I never left your side in the Roadhouse. When would I have put it on the windshield?"  
Dean tried to remember if Sam had left his side. He didn't normally mark it on the calendar when his brother took a leak, so it took him a moment to admit, "Well, if you didn't do it, then who did?"  
"I don't know: maybe the second one was there to begin with and you just didn't notice it."  
"Not a chance. Nobody sticks shit under my baby's windshield wiper without me noticing."  
"Shit stuck under a windshield wiper," Sam repeated, "Not the visual image I really needed right now, Dean. Look, they are just stupid, harmless notes. Does it really matter who put them there? Maybe you pissed off some adolescent female motorist who happened to be staying at our motel last night. She could have noticed the Impala here and decided to mess with your mind. Of course, that begs the question …."  
"What?" Dean asked, interested.  
"That you have a mind to begin with." Sam grinned.  
"You're a dick," Dean huffed.  
"I've got one."  
"Is that what you call that little tiny thing?"  
And so it went for the next five minutes, until finally Dean took to flipping Sam off every time he opened his mouth, which eventually shut him up.

Bumblefuck was only a three hour drive away, but by the time they arrived in the mostly deserted, totally dilapidated, one stoplight town, Dean was hungry enough to eat an entire cow. As long as said cow was really dead. The only eating establishment, Peg's Diner, happened to be conveniently located right next door to the feed store where Barnabas the Warlock had been spotted.  
A withered old waitress—Peg, Dean assumed—brought them both burgers and fries and deflected Sam's attempt at pleasant conversation/information gathering about chubby, balding warlocks with indifferent grunts. Dean cleared his plate in record time, even mopping up the residual ketchup with the leathery green piece of garnish and gobbling it down. He would have snagged the remains of Sam's burger, too, but the dude had a bad habit of holding his burgers too tightly, smashing the bun into a disgusting flour-like paste that did wonders for ruining Dean's remaining appetite.  
The owner of the feed store, Fred, had no trouble talking about his close encounter with Barnabas. A jovial man who wore a baseball cap with a tractor on it and smelled like hay, he talked animatedly, flinging his arms up and down to emphasize his points.  
"Got-damn it all if I do say so myself but he was the Got-damnedest weird ass fucker I've ever seen and let me tell you, boys, I've seen a lot of Got-damnedest weird ass fuckers in my time, I surely have." Fred's enthusiastic profanity was accompanied by a spray of saliva that shot toward the boys with sprinkler-like accuracy. Dean, always quick on his feet, dodged out of range. But Sam caught the spray full in the face. And then, didn't even move out of the way, too polite to let Fred see his discomfort.  
Fred went on a length about Barnabas's cape, his shifty eyes, his slinking walk, and strange requests for herbs, and animal hair and bones. Fred figured Barnabas was one of two things: either a fairy from the big city (Omaha) or some kind of crazy who worshipped the devil. It took a while, but Sam managed to get Barnabas's last known location out of Fred: an abandoned barn at the crossroads 14 miles out of town.  
Dean and Sam made their way out to the Impala, which had been parked for the whole time on the street in front of the feed shop. Dean was reaching for the door handle when he froze.  
There was another note tucked under the Impala's windshield wiper.  
Sam noticed it at the same time, and locked eyes with Dean.  
"Well, I'll be Got-damned," Dean said.

Part II forthcoming ...

Feedback always appreciated. Especially the monetary kind.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Note Me, Baby (Part 2 of 2, Complete)

Author: XinaMarieUhl

Category: Gen, Humor, Crack

Rating: PG-13 (fer cussin')

Length: 3374

Disclaimer: Just try and get me to claim something. I dare ya.

Summary: Zombies, notes, and a warlock. In Nebraska. Oh my.

Author's Note: Okay, darlings, here is the rest of the story! It came out a little late, but it's complete. I decided that all the trauma from the last few episodes of Supernatural gave me post-traumatic stress disorder. And this is what resulted from my temporary insanity. Enjoy!

Part II

Dean had always been an energetic guy, Sam reflected as he watched his brother pace up and down the length of the Impala spewing profanities, throwing his arms up in the air and kicking a metal trash can. He had been doing this for the past ten minutes--ignoring Sam's repeated requests to see what the note said—and was starting to make quite the scene.

" … as I find whoever or what-the-hell-ever is stalking me I'm going to rip its head off … " Dean ranted.

Peg opened the door to the diner and stared at Sam and his lunatic brother with a downward twist to her wrinkled old lips that clearly communicated that she was thinking about calling the cops.

"… bad enough to insult my car, and my shirt, but my _ass_? That's just too much, Sam …"

"Dean!" Sam hissed. "Would you _and_ your ass get in the car already?"

"I mean it, Sam! I'm not putting up with this for one more instant. This has got to end. I'm ending it. Now."

Sam took Dean's arm and steered him around the driver's side and opened the car door for him. Dean took the hint and climbed in behind the wheel, still fuming. Sam hurried around to the other side of the car and jumped in.

"Hand it over," Sam said. He was having second thoughts about knowing what the note said. Dean didn't get riled up easily.

Dean cursed and shoved the wrinkled note at him. Sam smoothed it out and read:

_Your ass looks like an orangutan's._

Sam couldn't help it. He gave an involuntary bark of laughter, then tried unsuccessfully to smother the giggles that followed.

Dean glared at him. "What is so funny?"

"Oh, come on, Dean. Don't tell me you take this seriously!"

"Gimme Dad's journal. There has to be something about lying stalker demons in it."

"No, Dean. Dad never put ass-looking demons in his journal. I think I would have noticed."

"Just look, would you?" Dean snapped, and turned on the ignition.

They drove to the edge of town, which took less than 30 seconds. There, Dean spotted a historical marker on the side of the road, and he pulled the Impala into the turnoff .

"Come on," he told Sam, exiting the car to stalk past the marker to a picnic table shaded by an old oak tree.

Sam sighed and followed him, clutching Dad's journal and trying his hardest to be sympathetic and concerned for his brother.

Over the next two hours Sam thumbed through the journal with ever-lessening enthusiasm as Dean alternated between watching the Impala out of the corner of his eye (just in case someone decided to drive up and shove another note under the windshield wiper) and pacing around behind the picnic table, grumbling and kicking stones. He called Bobby, who thought it might be some sort of curse. A rather stupid curse, but hey, they couldn't all be über evil, right? He said he'd look into it and in the meantime why didn't Dean call Ellen. So Dean called Ellen, who suspected him of smoking a joint. Although it took some time to convince her that he was indeed drug free (at the current moment, anyhow), she suggested that the notes might be some sort of strange protection spell conjured up by Barnabas the Warlock. Sam seized on this as the most likely explanation, especially after they walked back to the car to find it note-free. Apparently, the notes only appeared when they weren't looking.

"Let's find some place with a security camera and a pretty girl. We'll park the car and I'll chat her up while you watch the monitor. Then we'll see whether a real live person is putting these notes on the car, or not," Dean said.

Sam observed his brother, who had a rather crazed look in his eyes. Pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose, Sam sighed. God in heaven, the things he had to do for his family. He cleared his throat.

"Dude. You do know that your ass does not look like an orangutan's, right?" He kept himself from adding details about how Dean's ass had always looked normal enough, with the crack going vertical instead of horizontal, and all.

Sam was certain that he detected a momentary flash of relief on Dean's face before Dean snorted, "I don't need _you_ to reassure me about how wonderful my ass is. Believe me, the women of the world do that constantly. A lot of the men do, too. I'm irresistible that way."

Sam tried to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Just so you know." He thought his voice sounded earnest enough. When Dean made a mildly derisive sound in his throat Sam knew that he'd swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

An hour later, Sam and Dean crouched in front of the wall of a ramshackle barn, peering through cracks in the wood. Inside, Barnabas the Warlock leaned over a long wooden table to take bits and pieces from what looked like typical trappings of the occult: candles, silver bowls, ancient books, indistinguishable piles of herbs, toenail clippings, hair from various extinct beasts, that sort of thing. A bubbling cauldron sat atop an ancient wood-burning stove, and an impressive collection of swords, axes, and assorted kitchen implements completed the furnishings. Oh, yeah, and two recently killed lambs lay near the table.

Barnabas, wearing his signature cape (with a flashy red velveteen lining), hummed to himself as he puttered around, mixing this and grinding that and occasionally flailing out an arm or leg in what Sam eventually decided were ramped-up nervous tics.

Dean pulled his Glock from the hidden holster at the back of his pants and cocked it quietly.

"I'm ready. And I've got a plan."

"Which is?" Sam inquired.

"It's a three step process. Step one: Kick in the barn door. Step two: Run inside. Step three: Go apeshit on his ass."

Apeshit. Sam thought that was a particularly interesting word choice, given the content of the last letter. He decided not to mention it. Instead, he suggested, "Or we could open the door, walk inside, and talk to him."

Dean huffed. "What do we need to talk about? He's a sicko who's obviously getting ready to reanimate a couple more animals. Plus, if he's not the one behind the damn notes I want to know sooner rather than later."

Sam took a breath to begin arguing for his own insightful three step plan, but he was an instant too slow. Dean jumped up and leaped feet first at the barn door. It parted with a loud crack. Dean spared a split second to give Sam a smug glance before yelling commando-style and dashing inside.

Shit.

_One of these days, Dean …_

But not today. Sam flung himself upright and bounded heedlessly after his brother, gripping the machete Dean had nagged him into bringing along.

He caught a glimpse of Barnabas's round, startled face before something yanked him off his feet, sending him sailing through the air, and all hell broke loose. All right, all hell didn't break loose _literally_ (it had already done that, in a couple of other episodes). But it sorta seemed that way. A long, disoriented moment later Sam realized that he was caught tightly in a net 12 feet off the ground. He still gripped the machete handle, but now his elbow was pointed straight up, pinning the machete to his back. One leg was folded up, jabbing his knee into his Adam's apple, and the other leg extended above his head, making him feel like some rubbery teenage cheerleader doing the splits. Sam tried to move his head when he discovered that every twitch he made only pulled his muscles tighter and tangled his hair more insidiously through the weave in the net. With a twist of his wrist he managed to turn the blade of the machete outward. He began sawing away at the net.

Dean lay sprawled on his back beneath Sam, stunned by a 50-lb bag of play sand that sat in the middle of his chest, apparently having fallen from above.

"Dean?" Sam cried.

A moment later, he heard Dean's drowsy, "What the fuck?"

Dean groaned and shoved the sand bag off his chest with a curse. He levered himself to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs away, and staggered three steps forward before halting, hands in the air. Barnabas stood before Dean, cape dancing around his ankles, pointing a rather large gun at Dean's crotch.

"Whoa there, dude," Dean was saying. "You don't want to go doing something the entire female gender will regret. And hey, that's a flare gun, you know. I don't think it can kill me. Well, maybe it could. What do you think, Sammy?"

Sam sawed harder, breaking through a half dozen of the thin, but incredibly strong plastic strands holding the net together. A moment later his shoulder protruded from the net, then most of his back. His hair, however, remained trapped, pulling like a son-of-a-bitch. And there was just no damn way he was going to use a machete to chop off hunks of his precious hair. He sawed in a circle around his entwined locks.

"Sammy?" Dean said, having just noticed his brother dangling above him. "What are you doing up there? And what's wrong with your hair?"

"Stop talking!" Barnabas roared. He looked startled by the sound of his own voice. Then, surprise gave way to giggling and lunatic-like gibbering. He didn't move the gun aside, however.

At that moment, three things happened within an instant of each other. Sam freed his hair from the larger net (although he still wore an area of the net about three feet in diameter that contained his tangled curls. It kinda looked like a big, floppy, see-through hat.) Anyhow, now that he was free of the net, Sam plummeted to the straw-strewn floor, landing with a terrible, painful thud on his ass behind Dean. In front of Dean, in the space between he and Barnabas, a white note materialized out of thin air and fluttered to the floor. Dean gaped at it, then looked up to Barnabas.

"They _have_ been coming from you!" He shouted, and before Sam could extend a warning to his overexcitable brother to just hold on for a frickin' minute—remember the _gun_, idiot?—Dean pounced on Barnabas like a big, angry cat, hands extended toward the Warlock's throat like claws.

Barnabas gave a strangled cry as Dean collided with him, and the two of them went down, rolling around and scrabbling at each other like pissed off teenage girls. Then the gun went off.

"Dean!" Sam howled, horrified, just knowing that his brother had been shot.

But apparently, all the angst and drama of their day-to-day lives had been bled out over the past three Thursdays, and Dean was miraculously unharmed. In fact, Dean didn't even acknowledge his brother's _cri de coeur_. That's about the time Sam noticed the flare lodged in the roof, sputtering, smoking, and well, _flaring _like a mother fucker. Shortly, the rotted old wood caught fire. But, first things first. Sam ran over to the note, dodging Barnabas and Dean, and snatched it up.

Out loud, he read: _You're not acting very Frendlee. _He paused, puzzled, then stated: "This is strange: whoever wrote this spelled 'friendly' wrong."

Barnabas gave a startled jerk, then scrambled to his feet, holding Dean at arm's length. He reached for the note, his face a picture of longing. "Let me see that!"

Sam clutched the note to his chest, suddenly wary. "Yeah, sure. First, stop beating up my brother."

"Dude!" Dean cried, indignant. "He is _not_ beating me up."

Ignoring Dean entirely, Barnabas made a desperate grab for the note. Sam let him have it. He read it like a starving man devours a Big Mac, mouthing the words.

"It's from her!" He yelled. Then, he began searching the air around them. "Frendlee! Frendlee! Daddy's going to bring you back, honey. Daddy's trying!" Tears gushed from his eyes as he spoke, clutching the note in his sweaty palms, the flare gun and Sam and Dean all but forgotten.

Sam looked at his brother, who was watching Barnabas with an expression that clearly said: What the hell? Evidently feeling his brother's eyes on him, Dean glanced at Sam. His face split into a grin.

"Sammy, your hair looks even worse than usual, and that's saying something, dude. Seriously, how are you going to get any babes looking like that?"

"Will you shut up about my hair?" Sam snapped, then lowered his voice, and nodded at Barnabas. "What are we going to do about the insane warlock?"

Dean shrugged. "You're Mr. Touchy-Feely. Why don't you go talk to him and find out what's wrong?"

Sam felt a surge of annoyance. "You mean, like I wanted to do in the first place?"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said disinterestedly.

Sam repressed the urge to throttle his brother, having had a lot of practice with that particular impulse. He took a moment to compose himself before approaching the distraught warlock.

"Uh, look Mr. … Warlock guy. What's going on?"

Barnabas blinked as though he'd just remembered Sam's existence, and wiped the tears from his face. "It's my daughter, Frendlee. Her spirit must be here. I know it! She was only thirteen when she died. I've been working on a way to bring her back to me."

Dean stepped forward. "Working how? Don't tell me _that's_ why you've been resurrecting farm animals!"

"Well, I had to practice on something. The spells have been getting more effective each time. As soon as I can reverse the rotting problem I'll be able to bring her back for good!"

"As a frickin' _zombie_," Dean informed him, the picture of sensitivity and tact. "There's no way a spell can stop decomposition."

"At least she'll be alive … sort of. At least she'll be with me!" Barnabas cried.

Sam popped his knuckles. Yeah, this called for the full-on puppy dog eyes treatment, with a side of compassionate arm-stroking. He rested his hand on Barnabas's shoulder.

"What happened to her?" he asked.

"Car accident," Barnabas said in a small voice. "She and her best friend Britnee were riding their bikes to the store to get the latest copy of Teen Beat when a truck towing a cow trailer ran over them. Both of them -- dead on the spot! The only consolation I have is that Frendlee and Britnee died together. They were best friends in life – they could hardly stand to spend a moment apart. When they were apart they wrote each other dozens of notes … "

"Notes! I knew it had something to do with him!" Dean interrupted. Sam shot him a quelling glare.

"And now …. now they are best friends in death, too." Barnabas finished and broke into pitiful cries.

"Dean's right, you know," Sam said softly. "There's no way to stop decomposition. All the spells in the world can't do that. Sure, you'll have her back for a little while, although she'll probably be so evil that she'll try to eat your brains for breakfast. That is what zombies do. And even if you can protect yourself from her brain-eating, she'll continue rotting. You don't want chunks of your daughter all over the lawn, do you? What will the neighbors think?"

Barnabas looked at Sam in surprise, as if none of Sam's points had occurred to him.

Sam gave him a gentle smile. "I think you're right. I think she really is here. Why don't you ask her what she wants?"

It took Barnabas a moment to nod. Then he said shakily, "Frendlee, honey, do you want to come back to your dad? Even if you're a zombie?"

For a long moment nothing happened. Then, just when Sam thought Frendlee wouldn't reply, another note materialized and floated to the floor near Barnabas. He snatched it up and read it aloud:

_No. _

Barnabas broke out into heart-rending wails that went on for far too many minutes. Sam's eyebrows were getting sore from holding them together in his trademark concerned expression. Besides that, the entire building was filling with smoke from the roof fire. Sam didn't want to intrude on the Warlock's grief, but he hadn't really planned on burning to death today either. Finally, Barnabas said, "All right. I'll do what you want, Frendlee. No more spells. No more experiments. I'll let you rest in peace."

"Now wait just a moment!" Dean cried, addressing the air above Barnabas. "Why are you sending me nasty notes?"

A note appeared above Dean's head, and floated toward his face. Barnabas grabbed it and read:

_I was bored. _

"Bored??" Dean guffawed. "And you couldn't find a better use for your time?" He looked at Sam. "Kids these days! What are they thinking? Barnabas, make her stop, will you?" Sam could have sworn that Dean sounded downright whiny. He must have realized it, too. "If you don't, I'll be forced to--"

"I don't want to know!" Barnabas cried. "Please, Frendlee. No more notes to Dean."

Another note materialized, this one in front of Sam. He caught it. It read:

_Okay. Sorry, Dean. Love you, Daddy. _

"I love you, too, little angel-lovey-smoopkins-buddy-cakes!" Barnabas called.

Right about then a big, flaming chunk of the roof crashed down, and Sam figured it was about time to leave.

Later, Sam and Dean sat in a rundown diner outside of the barn where they'd confronted Barnabas. The raging fire had consumed all of Barnabas's occult supplies, which had made Barnabas unhappy since he had hoped to return most of them to Wal-Mart for a refund. Sam made it up to him by offering him $20, as long as he also pledged to abandon his evil ways. After clarifying that no, abandoning his evil ways didn't mean that he had to give up his dental practice in Upper Hoboken, New Jersey, Barnabas agreed. The last Sam and Dean saw of him, he was hitching a ride with a tractor.

Sam massaged his poor abused scalp absently. After trying to untangle Sam's hair from the net for the better part of an hour, Dean had gotten frustrated and whacked at it free with his 12" long hunting knife. Dean assured Sam that the resulting bald spots could be easily concealed with an artful comb-over.

Dean noisily sucked up the remaining dribbles from his cherry coke, and said glumly, "That was a bummer ending to this case."

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Who knew that Barnabas actually had a method to his madness?"

"Barnabas … what? No, I'm talking about the note stalker. I was hoping to kick some ass, and I didn't get to."

Sam refrained from calling his brother a psycho, and instead peeled a $20 from his wallet and left it on the table for the waitress.

"Come on, big bro. Let's hit the road. We'll find you some asses out there to kick."

"Starting with yours?" Dean asked hopefully.

Sam reached for the Impala's door handle. "You wish." He slipped into the front seat, expecting a snappy comeback from Dean.

Instead, Dean sat down carefully, like a man who had seen a ghost. He gripped a white note.

"It was beneath the windshield wiper," Dean gritted.

Sam took the note and opened it. In girlish script were the words:

_Hi! I'm Britnee, Frendlee's bff (best friend forever). Frendlee wants me to tell you she thinks you're kind of cute. _

End


End file.
